


Scar Tissue

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Knifeplay, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montparnasse has come to the conclusion that the boy is insane. Maybe that's what happens when you watch all your friends die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar Tissue

It's a sunny day in March when the boy comes to seek him out. In his fancy clothes and with the air of the rich surrounding him, Montparnasse is surprised he even made it here alive. He considers cutting the boy's throat and taking his money, but his curiosity is stronger than his greed, for once. The knife doesn't leave the boy's throat, though, barely giving him enough room to speak.

He's frightened, but not terrified. "We've met before. A few days before the barricades last year. Do you remember?" he asks, his Adam's apple touching the blade as he swallows.

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow at him, pressing the knife closer. "No," he lies. A pretty face like the boy's is not easily forgotten - and even if it was, Eponine's endless chatter would have made sure M. Marius was remembered.

"I... I knew Eponine," the boy says. His voice has lost some of its steadiness with the realization that the other man doesn't even remember him, and 'Parnasse revels in the glimpse of fear that ripples through the handsome features. Still, he's half a mind to get rid of the boy then and there, before he can continue rattling on. Montparnasse doesn't want to talk about Eponine. Not with her precious white knight, nor with anyone else.

Before he can make up his mind whether to kill the boy or shove him back out on the streets, Marius is talking again, hastily, almost stumbling over the words as if he'd gag if he didn't get them out as fast as possible. "Look, I know you don't know me, but I need you to do..."

He falters and starts again. "I want to... ask you a favor."

Montparnasse laughs at that, about to remind the boy that he doesn't _do_ favors, but Marius quickly adds, "I'll pay you."

The laughter dies on the bandit's lips. He drops the knife from the pretty white neck and leans back, regarding the young man through narrowed eyes. "I'm listening."

Marius has obviously rehearsed his little speech, and yet he stumbles through it while his brown eyes remain shamefully glued to the dirty floor. When he's finished, finally, he looks up, but only for a split second before he averts his gaze once more.

Montparnasse has come to the conclusion that the boy is insane. Maybe that's what happens when you watch all your friends die. But then, he couldn't care less. It's good money the whelp is offering. More than he has seen in his life, so why should he refuse just because the boy is not in his right mind.

"Alright." He coolly looks his companion over, fascinated as Marius appears to at once relax and tense up at his agreement. "Right now?"

The boy hastily shakes his head, shifting from one foot to the other. "No. I have to get back. Before they send someone to look for me. Maybe sometime next week? Wednesday?"

Montparnasse nods. "Whatever. I don't have any big plans."

"Alright then." He curtly nods, turning around to take his leave.

'Parnasse' voice calls him back. "One more thing."

He waits until Marius faces him. "You might want to meet somewhere else. This street is not exactly a safe place for someone like you." Or anyone at all. "Get a room at Mme. Pierre's."

The boy stares at him for a short moment. He nods once more, than he's gone.

And so, it begins.

* * *

Montparnasse has used this knife more times than he can count. Slid men's and women's throats without even the blink of an eye, plugged it deep into people's bodies. Some would argue the advantages of a gun, but he wouldn't want any other weapon. It's messy and it's deadly and sometimes, it feels as if it's a part of his body. He can handle it better than anyone else he knows. It is what he's good at.

But this... this is different. His victims are usually running, struggling, trying to fight him off. Not lying face-down on a bed with their shirts off, calmly waiting for the bite of the blade.

He feels a bit like an artist, with a living canvas made of skin and flesh stretched out beneath him. It surprises him how reluctant he is to sully the white, unmarred skin, to paint it red with his knife. But when he brings it down for the first time, drawing one neat line from the spine to the right, feeling the boy tremble and see him clench his hands to fists, the rush of power that hits him is exhilarating and familiar.

It takes almost half a minute until blood finally wells up from the cut, and about twice as long till the pain finally hits Marius, judging by the muffled groan he releases into the pillow.

Montparnasse regrets not hearing the boy scream. There's no need for silence in this place. Mme. Pierre's is not the sort of establishment where they care about what sounds the guests make or what goes on behind closed doors as long as the toothless old witch gets her money. But then, he's not much different in that respect: it's all about the money, and if the whelp doesn't want to scream, then who is he to object. This is but a job.

He shrugs and gets off the bed, reaching for his vest that he pulled off to avoid blood stains. He pockets the money lying on the table without bothering to count it. The boy is too honest for his own good.

The plan is to leave the room without a backward gaze, but he can't quite resist turning once. Sitting up now, Marius is watching him. He looks dishevelled, even more vulnerable than he usually does, and positively out-of-breath. In between the boy's appearance and the tangled sheets, anyone who'd come in now would think something very different had passed in this room. Montparnasse smirks, idly wondering if he could have made Marius scream then.

The boy reaches behind himself, fingering the cut. When he brings his hand up again, it's coated red.

"Would you... could you cut deeper the next time?"

Montparnasse' smile freezes. "The next time?"

Suddenly, there's fear in Marius' eyes. As if he's afraid that this was the one-time deal which Montparnasse thought it was. "Look, I'll give you more money, if you want. Please."

The boy begs prettily. Before he can stop himself, Montparnasse shakes his head. "Five-hundred is fine." He mentally slaps himself, but a part of him thinks it's wrong to ask for more from a man who's clearly out of his mind. A twisted set of ethics, but ethics nonetheless. "Next week then."

He's out of the door before Marius can speak again.

* * *

They fall into an uneasy routine. It's always Wednesday. It's always the same time. It's always the same room. Marius is always the first to arrive, and when the other man enters, he's already stretched out on the weathered, stained sheets.

Marius seems blatantly out of place in the seedy, filthy room but if he feels uncomfortable, he doesn't show it. 'Parnasse is not even sure if the boy ever pays any attention at all to their surroundings; he doesn't seem to notice much that goes on around him in any case. Or feel anything, beside the cut of the blade.

Montparnasse' canvas is no longer as unmarked and perfect as it used to be, and a part of him resents that. The rest of him revels in pride that every scar on this skin is inflicted by him. All but one. There's scar tissue on his chest, under his right shoulder. He never asked, but he knows the marks of gunfire. He never touches them.

Still, he wonders how Marius conceals the fresh scars from his pretty little wife. He's certain that she doesn't know – otherwise she'd stop this.

Sometimes, Montparnasse wishes she'd find out.

They never talk. No hello, no goodbye, no other sound than the rustle of sheets and their breathing, and Marius' occasional whimpers. He still doesn't scream, even though the blade cuts deeper now, and the skin is more sensitive. Their eyes never meet, either. Even when Marius is on his back, he won't look at the man he pays to mar his body. His eyes are closed, his features tense.

It doesn't take a genius to know why he's doing what he does. It's even more obvious why Montparnasse plays along. Five-hundred Francs are quite a lot of money. It's more than enough for a weekly income. And still... sometimes, 'Parnasse thinks about ending this. Not turning up at the tavern, leaving the boy stranded. Or just cutting down a bit deeper, a bit harder, watching the life bleed out of the boy. He knows that Marius wouldn't stop him, and for some reason, that doesn't serve to give him a thrill. Instead, the idea frightens him.

He doesn't know where Marius goes when they're finished, but his Wednesday nights are usually spent alone in the dark corner of some inn with a bottle of wine. Or two. However much it takes until he passes out and the mental image of the boy's pain-stricken face fades away.

* * *

"I won't be here next week."

For a moment, Montparnasse thinks Marius will finally put an end to this insanity. A wave of relief sweeps over him. At the same time, he's gripped with a mind-numbing fear he hasn't known before.

"I have to do some business in Reins. I won't be back before Thursday night," the boy continues, oblivious to the other man's inner turmoil. Oblivious to anything but his self-pity and his personal demons, as usual, Montparnasse thinks.

He shrugs. "Alright. In a fortnight then."

He is about to leave when there's a hand on his arm, holding him back. He jerks away as if burnt. This is the first time Marius has touched him. The first time since their first encounter on the market place, in what seems another lifetime, where the boy threw a punch at him for touching his precious girl. The touch is less violent now, and yet, it feels similar.

"Do you think..." Marius stops himself, looking down at his feet. "Could you..." Once again, he doesn't finish.

Exasperated, Montparnasse asks: "Could I what?"

Suddenly, the boy's head snaps up and he catches Montparnasse's eyes with his. "Can we meet on Saturday, perhaps? I don't want to wait until..."

Addiction. He has always known that Marius needs this – the bleeding, the pain, the way it makes him feel... or maybe the fact that it makes him feel at all. Needs it badly. But it's only now that he realizes that this is beyond mere _need_. He's seen morphine addicts before – his mother for once, or the young student who used to come to him for jobs to pay his next shot. He knows the symptoms. Marius shows them all. Except, there's no drug involved. Just him and his knife.

"Sure." He shrugs. "Doesn't make a difference to me."

Except, of course, it does. He's been caught up in this little game much more than he likes to admit.

* * *

It's just another day of the week. Nothing changes. Wednesday, Saturday - what does it matter?

And yet, it's different. A different day, a different room, a different atmosphere. If possible, Marius is even more on the edge than he usually is, even more needy. As if the three days he waited made it close to unbearable to wait even a second longer. He comes completely undone under Montparnasse' blade, panting, begging, pleading for more. And Montparnasse gives it, because he, too, has missed... this.

"Again," Marius demands in a raspy voice.

Montparnasse frowns, unsure. There are already three long cuts on the boy's chest. It's more than enough for today.

"Please, just one more."

So he gives in. Just one more, than he'll stop. He brings the knife down, makes another cut. Compelled, he watches as the blood slowly quells out. Even now, after all this time, the sight still fascinates him.

And then, before he can stop himself, he bends down and licks the wound, tasting the warm, fresh blood.

Marius' body arches up at the unexpected sensation, and finally, at last, a long, low scream escapes his throat. Almost startled at the force of the boy's reaction, Montparnasse looks up. The boy lies panting, his head stretched back, his arms spread wide apart, the fists clenched in the sheets. His posture looks like Jesus on the cross, complete with his chest torn open, but 'Parnasse doesn't think that Jesus has ever been so beautiful. When Marius raises his head, his eyes open and look at the other man. The brown orbs are darker than usually, and glassy – as if he's delirious. This has always been about guilt, about punishment, about pain. Montparnasse didn't completely understand, but he recognized it. But now, there's a dark kind of pleasure shining in the boy's eyes that Montparnasse knows only too well.

He smirks, chuckling darkly. "So, this is what it takes to make you scream."

If Marius hears him, he doesn't react. "Do that again," he breathes.

"Your wish is my command," Montparnasse quips mockingly, and lets his tongue trail over the cuts one more time.

"Oh God!"

"There's no God here," Montparnasse tells him, and bites down lightly.

The coppery taste of blood fills his senses, rich and sweet and salty. He can hear the boy's heart beating, can feel the body trembling beneath his. Montparnasse laps at the blood until it's smeared all over the boy's chest, mingled with spit. That's the kind of painting he likes. With a grin, he looks up, their eyes meeting once more. There's liquid heat in Marius' gaze; and this probably is a stupid idea, but 'Parnasse is too far gone to care. He presses his lips to Marius' in a hard, punishing kiss, letting the boy taste his own blood.

Montparnasse hadn't expected Marius to resist. He didn't think there was any will to fight left in the boy, no matter what he'd do to him. But he hadn't expected the hunger with which Marius' lips meet his. The fingers tangling in his hair. The hardness beneath the trousers as the boy's hips buck up to rock against his.

There are fresh stains on the sheets when they leave the room, and not all of them are blood.

* * *

Some things have changed, but essentially, everything stays the same. The next Wednesday, Marius is waiting for him. The boy's trousers have joined the shirt on the floor beside the bed, and it doesn't take long until Montparnasse' clothes land beside them.

The wounds from the weekend aren't healed yet, so 'Parnasse refuses to add more than one fresh cut. Marius pouts and pleads, but the other man won't relent, and when his mouth starts trailing downwards, leaving a glittering line of blood on his abdomen, Marius stops protesting.

"You think I'm crazy," the boy says afterwards. It's the first time he said something other than 'more' and 'please' and 'yes'.

Montparnasse lies on his back beside him, their shoulders touching. He shrugs, as good as his position allows him to. "Maybe."

"I just... I just want to feel the pain to remember I'm alive, to remind myself that I shouldn't be."

He really doesn't want to hear this. "You don't owe me an explanation. It's just a business deal." He's not quite sure who he's trying to convince. He runs his hand over his face, removing a strand of jet-black hair from his eyes.

"It was," Marius agrees, and the past tense in the statement screams at him.

"It is," he corrects, pushing himself up. He's not going to have this discussion.

"You didn't take the money on Saturday."

"I forgot," he says, suddenly defensive.

Marius laughs softly. It's the first time Montparnasse has heard him laugh. He decides that he likes the sound. "A fine businessman you are!"

The funny thing is, it wasn't a lie. He really forgot. "There must have been something else on my mind." He smiles, a little tightly. Thinks he should get out of here as long as he still can. This game has gone way beyond his control. Then again, he never really could control it to begin with. It might have been him with the knife, but the power was always Marius'. He was just too caught up in the excitement to notice. He suddenly feels young and helpless, admitting - at least to himself - he's in over his head.

Marius doesn't say anything, just regards him calmly. Waiting... for what?

With a trembling hand, Montparnasse reaches out and traces one of the scars on Marius' chest. "There are other ways... to feel alive." Or to feel at all, or whatever it is Marius wants. He doesn't think the boy knows, himself.

"Maybe," Marius admits, holding his gaze. His hand covers Montparnasse' and pushes it up to the gunfire scar on his shoulder. The skin feels rough under his fingers. His hand doesn't leave the spot when he leans over to cover Marius' mouth with his.

* * *

Finis.


End file.
